


A Study in Red

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fantasy, Friendship, High Fantasy, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After returning from the now finished war in the East, Captain Watson wants nothing more than to make his way peacefully through the world for the rest of his days. Instead, he finds himself thrust into palace life to assume the role of the eccentric, though brilliant, king's personal bodyguard, advisor, and, eventually, friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Things I've yet to decide (comment with feedback!):  
>  ~~\- work more with the BBC show or original canon~~  
>  ~~\- whether their relationship will be romantic/sexual at all~~  
>  \- sword-and-sorcery or sword-and-sandal (i.e. magical elements or not)
> 
> This fic is inspired by [this fantastic artwork](http://lostconner.tumblr.com/post/23216746683/click-for-full-size-please-i-am-yours-my-king).

When the war in the East ended, every soldier returned with the same story: there was a captain among their ranks beyond any man in loyalty to his men. He had come out of each battle against all odds, for he had risked life and limb and sanity on multiple occasions to save dying men, men who would be unquestionably dead were it not for the unbelievable and fairly stupid actions of this one captain.

The king had heard it all by the time his general came with the story. He sent for the captain, a man who had been promoted early in his career at the behest of the king’s late father, shortly before the king himself took the throne.

The captain came at once. He entered the throne room with a peculiar air of confidence and humility. The king read much about the man in those first few steps, and more than enough by the time the captain kneeled before his lord.

“Rise,” the king said, almost lazily. The soldier obeyed and stood with one hand comfortably and unthreateningly on the hilt of his sword. “You’re quite the talk of the city, Captain Watson.” The man hardly blinked. “Tell me, how does a man meant to be a physician, a healer of men, become a killer?”

At last the captain flinched, a small crease appearing on his brow. “Excuse me, your majesty,” he said in a deep, smooth voice, “but how did you-”

“Your hands, Watson. Your hands. If you’d be so kind to answer the question, though.”

“Apologies, milord.” He bowed his head. “My father was a physician himself, and my mother well-versed in herbs and potions. It’s true, sire, I was intended for the same profession, but when the war came I thought it best to defend the kingdom.”

The merest hint of a smirk graced the king’s lips. “Noble. Foolish, but noble.” The king put his fingertips together before his lips and leaned forward in his throne. “Tell me, Watson, what do you see?”

The king’s talents were well-known throughout the city, if not the entire realm. He could read a situation in a moment, a man’s life in less. It was this people feared and respected above all else; few dared commit even the pettiest of crimes with this man on the throne. And the king, it was also well-known, enjoyed testing his subjects. Most considered it pride, that he enjoyed making fools of lords and commoners alike.

Without turning his head, the captain glanced around at what was before him. After a moment, he looked back at the king and answered with only a sliver of uncertainty in his voice, “I see you, your majesty. My lord and king.”

Most men would make poor attempts at detailing their surroundings; others would simply reply that they did not know. This Captain Watson’s answer was the last the king expected, and for that reason the king found himself drawn to the man.

The king sat back in his seat and lowered his hands to his lap, fingertips still together. “I would like to employ you, Captain Watson.”

“All due respect, your majesty, I’ve had my share of fighting.” He began to add, “But if it is your command—”

The king waved away the captain’s words. “Oh no, nothing of that sort. If I should call upon your services, would you be so willing to accept?”

Some of the captain’s confusion was showing at last, but all he replied was, “Of course, sire. You are my king.” So with a small smirk, the king dismissed his captain.


	2. A Study in Red

John Watson had been put up in temporary lodgings at the palace barracks until he could find his own accommodations in town. Some days after his return to the kingdom and his audience with the king, Watson was roused by a fierce knock at the door to his small chamber. He tossed on his shirt and, noting it was still dark out, answered the door. The king himself stood before him.

“Milord,” Watson said with an awkward half-bow. “My apologies-”

“Nonsense,” the king said, waving his hand. “It is I who have disturbed you. Tell me, did you encounter much in the way of poisons during your time in the East?”

“Some, your majesty.”

“I wonder if you might join me in the city. I would like your advice on a matter.”

“Now, milord?” Watson tried to make his voice humble, but he couldn’t help but be annoyed no matter who it was that disturbed his rest. He had gotten very little of it during the war, and he had been gorging himself on good sleep the last few days.

“Now would be ideal, Watson. I rather dislike traversing the streets during investigations when the city is awake and I am constantly delayed with bowing and ‘your highness’ and such wasteful diversions. I shall meet you at the west gate shortly. No need for formal attire, but you might bring your sword with you.” Without another word he turned and dissolved into the dark corridor.

Watson dressed, belted on his sword, and made his way to the west gate, all the while trying to swallow the yawns and blink away the sleep that still dragged him down. The king was waiting alone, himself dressed in nothing more spectacular than a tradesman’s garb. He nodded silently to Watson, unlatched the small gate, and slipped through, himself a shadow among shadows. Watson followed, and when the king closed the gate behind him Watson heard the latch swing down.

“I hope you have a key, your highness,” Watson whispered. It seemed whispering was the best thing to do in these dark streets.

“I do,” the king replied in an equally low voice, “and had I not, the palace guard is quite used to my, as they call them, escapades. And while we are out here, slinking about like cats, call me Holmes. No need for anyone to hear the king is out again.” Watson could make out a smirk tugging at the king’s mouth.

So Holmes led the way through narrow streets. Watson was sure there could have been a more direct route to their destination, but he did not question his king. When they at last arrived there, it was a shabby house tucked away like every other house on the street. The only defining feature was the light from the window and the soldier outside. He nodded to Holmes and eyed Watson cautiously, but he did not ask questions.

Inside, the light came from a fire and several candles. On the table was a body covered in full by a sheet. Holmes uncovered the body down to the waist, revealing the bare chest of a young man.

“Who was he?” Watson said with a tone of solemnity.

“Butcher’s apprentice I’m told, and so it would seem by the muscular development of his right arm. But I have brought you here to help me discern the nature of his death, which occurred sometime yesterday.”

“Poison, as you said,” Watson concluded quickly enough. The skin was a sore red, though the area around the nose and mouth were bluish, as if the poor soul had been strangled as well as poisoned.

“Here,” Holmes said. His long, deft fingers lifted up the man’s right hand. The flesh on one of the fingers had opened up to reveal a layer of rot, far more rot than the time of his death would allow. The rest of the hand was a more violent red than on his face or chest.

“Does he have friends or family that might know something?” Watson turned back to look at the rest of the body for anymore signs.

Holmes, however, had taken to scouring the room. “He comes from a village somewhere else,” he murmured. “Just a butcher’s apprentice, that’s all anyone knows. Aha! Look here.”

Watson hurried over to a niche beside the hearth. Holmes reached out and retrieved a wilted red rose. Holmes leaned in to smell the flower, but Watson swatted it from his hands. “Careful!” He swallowed hard, remembering whose presence he was in. “Apologies, sire. I only wish the same fate does not befall you. We know not how this man died. Anything is suspect.”

Instead of growing angry, the king grinned. “Quite right, Watson. Thank you.” Holmes retrieved a plain kerchief from his pocket and retrieved the rose. He examined it close to the light of the fire, with his eyes only. “Look here. What do you see?”

Watson peered at the flower, but he saw only that. “Nothing. A dead rose.”

“Closer.” Holmes shifted the flower and pointed to the petals. Watson could just barely make out a yellowish powder inside the nest of petals. “Poison indeed! But the kind, and how this fellow came to suffer it, still remains in question. Have you seen all you need here?” Holmes stood abruptly and headed for the door.

“I believe so,” Watson said and followed.

“Then this man can be put the rest, as can we.”

When they returned to the palace and were back through the gate, the king parted ways without a word, sweeping back to his palace. Oddly awake, Watson returned to his own chamber. He lay sleepless for some time, and when he did sleep he dreamt about the war.

 

Watson dressed quickly at dawn. He remembered dark images in his sleep, many of which now fading, and he dreaded what he might find when he went to look for the king. He stopped abruptly before the guards attending the throne room, but neither so much as glanced at him. Then Watson heard the king himself call him inside. He was relieved to hear the king’s voice, but started with a sinking feeling when he saw the king’s hands were bandaged.

“Your hands, milord,” Watson said.

The king glanced half-interestedly at his own hands. “Ah, yes. It seems whatever caused the demise of last night’s victim was conveyed in part through touch. Never mind, I am quite well. There is a peculiar plant I acquired some time ago from some dignitary from the south. It is called ‘aloe vera.’ Its juices help reduce skin irritation.”

“I’ve heard of the plant,” Watson said, still staring worriedly at the king’s hands. Then he remembered why he had rushed here. “Milord, I believe I know the poison.”

The king’s left brow arched curiously. “Do you? That would be splendid, Watson. I was studying up on the matter, but botany is a wide subject and the texts on it are questionable at best.”

“Do you recall the powder on the rose, milord?”

“I do.” The king pressed his fingertips together, bringing his hands close to his mouth as he leaned forward in his seat. “It is called ‘ginja.’”

“You have seen its effects before?”

“Twice, milord. Once, the man was lucky enough to recover. The other, it was not so.” Watson’s brow furrowed.

“You have more to say. Carry on.”

Watson nodded. “In both cases the poison took several days to run its course. Nearly a week before the survivor began to recover, and just under three days for the other to die.”

The king sat straight up. “And yet it seems last night’s victim took to his deathbed quickly. Another cause of death then perhaps?”

Hesitantly, Watson shook his head. “I do not think so, milord. I have seen many ways in which a man can die, and currently I cannot conceive of another cause for this man’s death but the ginja bean.”

“Very well. Thank you, Watson.” The king stood abruptly and descended from his throne. “I must think on the matter. I will likely call upon you once more tonight.” He walked off to a door beyond the throne and disappeared through it.

 

Of the things Watson had accumulated during his time in the East, friendships were not one of them. But along with scars and nightmare fodder to last ten lifetimes, Watson had accumulated a great extent of favours. He lost count of how many times a man whose life he saved or passing he eased had told him, “I owe you, sir” long before the war was over. Some went so far as to specify wealth and status, one even his sister if they both survived the hell of war. Watson had no intention on seeking out any of these men, no desire to call in any favours, until now.

There was a man in the war named Stamford. Rather than his life, Watson had saved the man’s mind. Stamford, like Watson, had a greater interest in medicine than fighting. Unlike Watson, he was not remotely capable in the latter. Rather than carry Stamford’s body, Watson had helped carry the man’s mind through more than one gory battle. It was perhaps the closest Watson had come to forming a friendship among his comrades, something he had intentionally avoided. The two had made it through together, and they had parted at the gates of the city. Stamford had a family to return to, children he hadn’t seen in years, whose youths he had missed out on entirely. Watson had nothing ahead of him but the desire to stay out of war until he died of very, very old age.

Stamford didn’t seem at all surprised to see Watson on his doorstep. He welcomed him heartily, ushered him into his small though comfortable home. He introduced Watson to his wife, a plain woman with a sincere smile, and their children: two sons and a daughter. The youngest boy must have been a tot when they left for the war, but now he was a lad of seven or so.

“What can I do for you, good friend?” Stamford said once introductions were made.

“You have a keen knowledge of plants, if I recall correctly.” Watson recalled the man being fascinated by every new plant they marched over, saddened by the missed opportunities for study.

Stamford smiled, but there was a quizzical look in his eye. “Well enough, yes.”

“Do you know anything of the ginja bean?”

Now Stamford’s expression took on a full frown. “Strange.”

All of Watson’s well-honed nerves went on guard. “What is?”

“You are not the first to ask me about the plant.” Stamford took a seat on a short bench by the hearth, gently shooing his children and wife from the room. He motioned to the wooden chair across from him and Watson sat. “Just after we came home, a strange man came asking about the same plant.”

Watson straightened up. “Do you recall what he looked like?”

Stamford shook his head. “Afraid not. It was just past dusk, and he was cloaked and hooded. Strange accent, though. From farther East than we ever travelled I think.”

“What did he want to know?”

Stamford shrugged. “Whatever knowledge I had.”

“And you gave it to him?” Watson tried to keep accusation from his voice, but it was clear by Stamford’s startled look he was not entirely successful. “I’m sorry, friend, I did not mean to sound cruel. But it’s of importance, not only to myself,” Watson lowered his voice, “but to the king as well.”

“The king?” Stamford started.

Watson nodded. “And I ask you to keep that information to yourself.”

Stamford stuttered, “Of course. But the king?”

“What information did you give the stranger?” Watson changed the subject back.

“What little I knew, what I had heard from the Easterners.” Stamford related the facts, but they were nothing Watson himself hadn’t also learned. “But he seemed oddly pleased about what I gave him.”

Watson sighed. “Well, thank you, Stamford.”

Stamford leaned forward. “Have you really got the ear of the king?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Watson said with a tight smile. “He’s merely asked for my assistance on a matter.”

“Good for you. You deserve recognition.” Watson gave no reply to the compliment. He thanked Stamford again for the information and went back to the streets.

As Watson made his way gradually back to the citadel, he passed through one of the smaller market streets. He cast a half-interested look about, considering again where he might live now that the war was done. The barracks were comfortable enough, especially after years in the field, but he was tired of living among soldiers and as one. And he had no intention of overstaying the king’s generous welcome.

He spotted a girl selling flowers from a basket, perfect roses in fact. Watson grimaced, recalling the barely wilted flower in the dead man’s home and the mystery still before him. As he passed near the girl, she curtsied and offered up a flower with a white, though smudged, gloved hand. “Flower for the lady, sir?”

Watson began to shake his head politely, but he caught site of the red petals. Just visible from where he stood he could make out the yellow powder. He was standing stock still, and the girl looked nervously at him.

“Where did you get these?” he spoke slowly, keeping his voice steady.

“From my mum’s garden, sir,” she said, but her voice trembled and she set the flower back in her basket.

Watson took a deep breath. “Did you sell one of these to a young man yesterday? He would have been little more than twenty years.”

The girl dropped the basket and bolted. It only took Watson a few lunges to reach her and grab her arm. She screamed shouted and wriggled, and soon everyone nearby was watching. Watson grabbed her shoulders and forced her to face him. “I don’t mean to hurt you, child,” he said. “But I must know where the flowers came from.”

She quieted, shaking, and stared back with watery eyes. “I didn’t mean him no harm, sir. Honest. I didn’t mean no one no harm. I didn’t know-” She collapsed to the ground, sobbing, hands clenched in her lap.

“Are the flowers yours?” She shook her head. “Did someone give them to you to sell?” She hesitated, but gave a slow nod. “What’s your name?”

“Molly, sir,” she whimpered.

Watson lifted her gently. “Molly, I’d like you to come with me to the palace.” Fear washed over her face. “Don’t worry. If you tell us everything, you won’t be in trouble.” He’d seen enough street urchins growing up, and especially during the war, to know a child would do anything to earn her bread. And selling flowers was a cherished alternative to some options.

The girl gathered the roses, handling them gingerly. Watson took the basket from her and there was a sharp intake of breath. “Don’t touch them, sir,” she whispered. Watson took that into account, making sure his grip on the handle was far from any flower.

 

Watson and Molly were not forced to wait long in the throne room. The person to meet them, however, was not the king. He was in guard uniform, a man with a narrow face and dark eyes, a little older than Watson whose hair had recently begun to grey. He looked upon Watson with evident scepticism. Before either could speak, though, the king himself entered through the door behind his throne. Molly gave a small squeak and shuffled slightly behind Watson.

“Progress?” The king inquired. He took a quick look between Watson and the guard. “Ah, yes. I haven’t introduced you two. Watson, this is Lestrade, Captain of the Guard. Lestrade, Captain Watson. A good man I’m told, and so I’ve seen though our acquaintance has been short.” His eyes darted to the figure hidden behind Watson.

“This is Molly,” Watson said after giving Lestrade a polite nod. “I found her selling these.” Watson held up the roses. Lestrade closed the gap between them and snatched the basket from his hand. “Careful not to touch them,” Watson urged, though annoyance wormed its way into his tone as well. Lestrade paid him no mind and brought the flowers to the king for inspection.

“Yes, quite like the one we found last night, Watson,” the king said. A startled expression flashed across Lestrade’s face, but it was quick to vanish. “But it’s clear they are not your flowers,” the king said to Molly.

“No, milord,” Molly whined. “I swear it, milord. They isn’t mine. Someone, he gave them to me. Said I could sell them. Don’t know why, milord. Didn’t ask questions, milord.”

Watson knelt and half-turned to the child. He put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright, Molly. No one blames you.” Lestrade snorted. Watson cast a glower at the man before turning back to the girl. “Do you know what he looked like?”

Molly shook her head. “All cloaked and stuff, sir. Had a funny voice, like he wasn’t from here. Not even close.”

“What did he say to you? About the flowers.”

Molly held up her hands. “Gave me these gloves, told me to make sure I wore them when I touched the flowers. Said I wasn’t allowed to sniff them. They look so pretty, but he kind of scared me. But I had to sell them, sir. I had to. My brother, he’s only little, and my mum’s sick.” She was desperate now.

Lestrade finally spoke, and his voice was full of cynicism, “And why should we believe anything this whore has to say?”

Molly’s face went red. “I isn’t no whore,” she screeched, still cowering behind Watson.

Watson stood and faced Lestrade, hands curled into tight fists at his side to keep from reaching for the sword he wasn’t wearing. Before he could speak, though, the king did, “No, I don’t believe you are.” The king’s voice wasn’t reassuring, just bland and factual. “You were given these flowers by a stranger, that much is clear. Leave the gloves with the basket, and, unless you have anything else to tell us, you might be on your way.”

The girl looked up to Watson for confirmation. He nodded and tried to give her a soft smile. She yanked the gloves from her hands and ran from the room. Watson at once turned on Lestrade. “What right have you to insult her like that? She was helping us.”

“What right have you to challenge me?” Lestrade sneered, a hand resting easily on his hilt.

“Gentlemen,” the king said, sounding more bored than anything. “I believe we have a cloaked stranger from the East to find. Now really isn’t the time.” He took the basket from Lestrade and went over to Watson. Watson picked the small gloves up from their insides and laid them over the flower. The king nodded his thanks and disappeared back to his private room behind the throne. This left Watson and Lestrade staring each other down before the captain of the guard stormed out past Watson.

 

Watson tried to get some sleep after supper, before the king called on him, but he tossed restlessly in his bed for the better part of the early evening. He had nothing to distract him, but he dared not leave his room lest the king come while he had stepped out. When midnight came and went, Watson began to worry. He checked his sword and tightened his belt before reluctantly leaving the barracks.

Without anywhere else to go, Watson made his way to the throne room. The guards on duty, this time, eyed him carefully, but neither of them stopped him. The throne room was empty. “When was the king last seen?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” one of the guards replied.

“What do you mean?” Watson snapped.

“We haven’t seen him since we took up our shift,” the same guard said, sounding taken aback and defensive. “It’s not unusual.”

“How so?”

He hesitated, so Watson turned to his companion. This one gave an uneasy shrug. “The king locks himself in his study for hours, sometimes days on end.”

“How do you know he’s safe?”

“That door’s the only way in, sir,” the guard assured him. “No windows. And, aside from the servants’ door, this is the only way into the throne room.”

“Who’s to stop the servants’ door from being used?”

“It’s locked,” one of them said. “It hasn’t been used since the king’s coronation. He… wasn’t keen on it.”

“With good reason,” Watson muttered. He went back into the dimly lit throne room.

“He doesn’t like to be disturbed,” one of the guards called after him.

Watson ignored him and went straight for the study door. He knocked twice, hard. No response. Again, and again silence. He tried the handle, but it was locked. “Milord,” he called through the wood. “I only wish to know you are safe.” He pressed his ear to the wood near the doorframe, but he heard nothing. His nerves got the better of him. He went back to the guards and asked if there was a key to the door. They hadn’t.

“I wouldn’t worry yourself, sir,” one of them said. “This really isn’t unusual behaviour for him.”

Watson’s patience was at an end, and along with his nerves he snapped at the guards, “The king has locked himself in a room with a substance that is lethal by inhalation alone. That means breathing it in,” he snarled at their baffled looks. “And neither of you has a key to that room?”

The shook their heads, horror creeping into their faces. One of them followed Watson back to the door, where he attempted once more to rouse an answer with his fist. He told the guard to back up. He kicked heavily at the door, but it barely budged and his leg ached.

“Help me,” he ordered. He and the guard took a short running start and rammed their shoulders together into the door. It burst opened and they stumbled in on a pitch black room. “Fetch a light.” The guard obeyed. Watson waited for eyes to adjust to what light the torches outside the room where providing, his heart racing with each moment that passed.

A bright flame lit up the place in a blaze, and Watson’s fears came true. The king was unconscious in his chair, the flowers spread out on a cluttered worktable. He wasted no time in looking about the room. He went straight to the king and half-carried, half-dragged him away from the poison. He laid him on the floor beside the throne. The guard was shouting to fetch a physician.

“I need water, a bowl of water and a clean cloth,” Watson shouted. He listened at the king’s chest for a heartbeat, and found one muffled and painfully slow. “And light,” he shouted.

It didn’t take long for the palace to wake. Torches were lit all around Watson and the king, and Watson saw with renewed anxiety that the king’s lips and fingertips were a faint shade of blue. At last a basin of water and a cloth appeared. He began to the king’s face in hopes to remove any of the powdered ginja that might remain. He asked for a knife and one appeared. He cut away the bandages, doing his best to avoid touching them, and wiped the red, inflamed hands as well.

Somewhere nearby Watson heard the last voice he wanted: Lestrade’s. “What the hell is going on here?” he shouted. His footfalls stopped abruptly at the sight before him, the small crowd of people and the unconscious king. “What are you doing?” he seethed.

“Trying to save his life,” Watson shot back. He didn’t have time for this.

“It’s true, captain,” one of the guards intervened on his behalf. “If not for Watson, the king might already be dead.”

It wasn’t entirely true, but it was good enough to get Lestrade on Watson’s side. Or at least not against him. “Stand back,” he ordered the crowd. “Unless this man needs your assistance, stay out of the way.”

“Someone help me sit him up,” Watson said. Another pair of arms appeared, and it wasn’t until they already had the king sitting that Watson saw they were Lestrade’s on. “I need to clean out his mouth. Hold him up.” He should have asked for a cup, another bowl, but he had no time. Watson cupped water into the king’s mouth and let it fall onto the stone again. After doing this several times he and Lestrade lay the king back down.

“Will he live?” Lestrade whispered so only Watson could hear him.

“I don’t know,” Watson said. He listened again at the king’s chest and the shallow, muffled breathing. “We need to move him.”

“Where?”

Watson’s mind raced, trying to recall every detail of the last two men whose lives he tried to save from the ginja. Both treatments had been near identical enough, but only one had survived. “A small room. His bath. We need hot water and chamomile or peppermint.”

There were no arguments or questions from Lestrade. He dismissed everyone, sent two servants to fetch Watson’s requested supplies, and he himself helped Watson carry the king through the palace. They had to climb an extensive flight of stairs and make their way through a long corridor, and they were both sweating from the exertion by the time they came to the king’s chambers.

In the bath, which connected to the large bedroom by a side door and a short hall, they laid the king gently on the floor. Watson began to unfasten the clasps and buttons of the king’s clothes, and at this Lestrade showed some trepidation. “We should call the servant-” He broke off at Watson’s severe look.

“The fact that he is our king makes him no less my patient, and his life no less in danger. I would not risk any more delays, captain.” Lestrade didn’t argue, but he himself parted from the room to wait for the hot water.

Watson left the shirt and braies while he waited for the hot water. It took a long time in coming, and all the while he kept a careful study of the king’s condition. It was only a small relief that it seemed to grow no worse, for now.

When the hot water did at last arrive, he directed the servants to fill the tub. They had also brought the chamomile. Watson added most of the chamomile to the water. The rest he took back to the king. He lifted the king’s torso onto his lap and held a sprig below the king’s nostrils, watching anxiously at the bare flutter of air that came and went. When he could smell the chamomile from the bath, he called in Lestrade and together they lifted the still partially-clothed king into the tub.

Lestrade shifted uneasily in the steam. “What now?”

“I hope this will clear his breathing,” Watson explained, motioning to the bath. “After that, we can only wait.” The words twisted Watson’s stomach. “Thank you for assistance.”

“You may yet save our king’s life,” Lestrade said. “There is no need to thank me. I will be outside if you require my assistance further.”

After Lestrade left, Watson took off his jacket. He spotted a stool in the corner and pulled it up near the tub. He waited until the steam began to settle and the water became warm, watching for any signs of improvement. None showed themselves. When he called for Lestrade, a servant came as well. Watson requested towels and the boy fetched them at once. Together, Watson and Lestrade lifted the king from the tub and wrapped him in a large thick towel. They brought him into the bedroom, where Watson suggested Lestrade may want to step out again.

The boy remained, quiet and waiting for Watson’s orders. “What’s your name?”

“Wiggins, sir,” the boy said. “I’m milord’s personal servant, sir.”

Watson directed the boy to help him remove the wet clothes and replace them with a dry nightshirt. They put the king under the covers, and as soon as Watson thanked Wiggins the boy went to work picking up the king’s clothes and wet towels. Watson sat heavily in a large chair by the window facing the bed.

After Wiggins had disappeared, Lestrade came back in. “Any change?” Watson shook his head. “You should get some sleep. I’ll look after him.”

“No,” Watson said. “I mean no offense, Lestrade, but he needs a physician, not a guard.”

“Fair enough,” Lestrade said. “Call the servants if you need anything, for the king or for yourself. Let me know if there’s any change.” He paused. “For better or worse.” Watson nodded and the captain of the guard departed. The room was suddenly overwhelmingly quiet. Watson repositioned himself in his chair, removing his belt and hanging it on the arm so his sword was still in easy reach. He settled himself in for a long wait.

 

Watson was brought food in the morning, which he ate little of. He had little trouble keeping himself awake, though he felt exhaustion weigh on him. He would walk around the room, from nerves as much as to keep himself alert.

Late in the morning the door opened while Watson was standing in front of his chair stretching. As always, his hand went instinctively to touch his sword. When the man who entered was neither a servant nor Lestrade, Watson’s fingers closed around the hilt. The stranger was a heavyset fellow, though, and unlikely to cause any quickly engineered harm to the king or to Watson himself. Still, Watson watched him warily. And the man watched back, a familiar sharpness in his eyes.

“That makes you the valiant Watson then,” the man said, almost lazily. He closed the door behind him.

“And you are?” Watson did not keep the edge from his tone.

He nodded to the king’s unconscious form. “Sherlock’s brother, the would-have-been king. My name is Mycroft.”

Watson had heard little about the man, at least not as anyone but the prince and heir apparent. Their father had died two years before the war came to an end, and whatever had happened that caused Mycroft to abdicate the crown to his younger brother was a mystery to Watson, one he had held no interest in until now. The majority of his concerns remained elsewhere.

“I must thank you for looking after him. I am told that, were it not for you, my brother would be dead.”

“Don’t thank me until he is no longer on the brink,” Watson replied sourly. He released the sword and returned to his seat.

The king’s brother didn’t speak again. He stood for a long while, watching his brother, perhaps watching Watson at some point, but eventually he left in silence.

 

It was three days since Watson found the king until there was a positive sign. By then Watson had reluctantly allowed his body to drift off now and then. When he awoke from one of these brief, erratic sleeps, he found the king, though still unconscious, breathing easier. By the next morning, his breathing and heart were much improved.

On the sixth day, the king stirred. Watson called for Wiggins at once, and the boy stood expectantly at the foot of the bed. Watson leaned over the king, testing his brow for fever. But, aside from symptoms that were easily attributed to thirst and hunger, it seemed the poison had mostly run its course.

At that point Watson let the servants take over. He gathered his things and retired to the barracks, where he washed and collapsed into his bed. Someone brought him food, which he found and ate in a brief moment of wakefulness. He was quick to return to sleep, though.

Finally a knock roused him, and he immediately feared the worst. Wiggins was at his door, but the boy did not look particularly worried. In fact, he seemed fairly happy.

“Milord requests your presence, sir.”

Watson told him he would come at once. He dressed into a cleaner set of clothes than the ones he had sat in for near a week without so much as splashing his face. He returned to the king’s chambers, disoriented by the passages lit by the sun instead of moon and torches.

There was a small gathering in the king’s bedroom. It included Lestrade, Wiggins, Mycroft, and a woman old enough to have been Watson’s grandmother.

“The loyal captain,” the king greeted with a tired smirk. A wave of relief washed over Watson to see the king, though exhausted and weak, very much alive. “I am told you have met my brother and young Wiggins here. Allow me to introduce Madam Hudson, a very old friend of the royal family.”

“Cheeky,” the woman sniffed before turning to Watson with a kind smile. He nodded politely to her, and in a moment felt completely confused and out of place among this strange assortment.

“Right, the rest of you out,” the king commanded, though not particularly sharp. “I would like to speak with my saviour in private.”

When it was just the two of them, Watson felt even more uneasy. “I am glad to see you doing well, milord,” he said.

The king waved a hand at him, and then gestured to the chair where Watson had sat watch. It had been drawn closer to the bed, and Watson lowered himself slowly into it. “It’s Sherlock, remember? ‘Milord’ and that nonsense can be saved for the public. I don’t care much for it. Now, I believe I have you to thank for saving my life.” He smiled, sincere but with a hint of cunning in his eyes.

“I did my service to my king,” Watson said quietly, shifting his gaze just slightly so as not to meet the king’s eye directly.

“And a very skilled service indeed,” the king chuckled.

“Has there been any progress in finding the villain who started all this?” Watson said abruptly.

“Hm, there has. Afraid the coward killed himself before Lestrade got to him, though.”

“Killed himself?” Watson didn’t hide his astonishment. “What for?”

“What for indeed. But that can wait. To the matter of your job-”

“My job?”

“Yes,” the king said, sounding impatient. He motioned to the door. “My esteemed council seems to think I need a private guard, what with the possibility of conspiracy in the air.”

“Conspiracy?”

“Indeed,” he said, and his eyes gleamed. “Quite intriguing if it proves to be more than nonsense, which I must say this just might be. But back to the point, Watson. There are rooms just outside, beside my own. You’ve passed the door to them. They should suffice, and of course if you desire any changes they can be arranged.”

“Excuse me, mi- Sherlock.” The king raised a brow. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Have I missed something? Surely not, Watson. You are to take up residence next door.” He grinned at Watson’s look of utter confusion. “My private guard, as I said. You alone will have access to me at all times. I’ve never really been fond of the idea, but I must admit that if it’s to be done I would rather the man be you. And apparently it’s to be done.” He cast a brief glower to the door and those no doubt still waiting outside it. He looked back to Watson. “Of course, this all depends on your consent. I won’t order it of you. I don’t need a personal guard who doesn’t want the job.”

The first thing Watson managed to stutter out was, “Why me?”

“I would think it obvious, Watson. No? In the last few days you have proved yourself to be more than simply loyal to your king. You have a fair intellect in that head of yours, and a sensibility that allowed you to save my life when many others would have panicked. You are knowledgeable in medicine and swordsmanship, a peculiar yet useful combination. And, of course, you have already saved my life once.”

Watson worked his jaw for a moment behind a tight mouth. “You’re my king.”

The king raised his left brow. “Tell me, Watson, would you have acted any differently the other night had I been a commoner?”

It didn’t take Watson a moment to answer truthfully, “No. I would have done exactly the same for a stranger.”

“Exactly,” the king said with a sharp nod. “So, will you accept?”

“Be your private guard?”

“I can assure you, it will be tiresome.” The king smiled. “Even young Wiggins gets agitated with me at times, and honestly he spends little time around me in his service. I’m sure more than one individual would have struck me by now if I weren’t the king, Madam Hudson included. She had no qualms about it when she was my nursemaid.”

Watson shook his head, but only to clear it. “What would it entail?”

“Following me about I suppose. I’m honestly not sure. You would have to ask Mycroft or Lestrade. The former would say keeping me out of trouble by my own hands, and the latter would say keep me from harm by the hands of others.”

“Your own hands?” Watson frowned.

“Oh,” the king sighed, sounding incredibly annoyed and bored all of a sudden. “Mycroft seems to think I put myself in more danger than a king ought to. I wouldn’t know, as our father was an excruciatingly dull man.” His tone changed again, and now he was the most sincere Watson had ever heard him, “But it would mean doing things like you did the other night. I don’t mean simply saving my life, Watson. Knocking down that door despite what everyone around you said. That, I believe, is what this job would most require of you.”

Watson kept silent for a moment, but he didn’t really have to think about it. This was his king, and it was a king who would go out into the city to uncover the mystery surrounding the death of one of his people, a man who did not lay false blame though it would have been faster and cleaner and easier on everyone. He was peculiar, to be sure, but Watson guessed he had met stranger men without half as much intelligence and virtue.

At last Watson stood and gave a half-bow in the narrow space between the chair and bed. “It would be an honour, your majesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ginja_ is taken from the Telugu name for the Rosary Pea ("guru ginja"), which contains a deadly toxin called abrin.  
>  \- [How Stuff Works on The Rosary Pea](http://adventure.howstuffworks.com/top-5-poisonous-plants8.htm)  
> \- [Wikipedia on _Abrus precatorius_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosary_pea)  
>  \- [Wikipedia on Abrin](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abrin)


End file.
